


You may now kiss the bride

by jimmriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Jim, Crossdressing, Drug Use, Jim is literally Sherlock's bride, Like... a lot of feelings and angst I've warned you, M/M, Mild Gore, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Top Sherlock, but you expect that when you ship this thing, it's kinda fucked up in certain bits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmriarty/pseuds/jimmriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, this is our wedding night…” He whispers, voice low and melodious, lifting the skirt over his hips to show off his erect cock, already wet with pre-come. “I think it lacks a bit of romance and tradition.”<br/>The sarcastic reply that Sherlock has in mind doesn’t have the time to leave his lips.<br/>“Do you want to take off my garter using your teeth?”<br/>“Sorry, what?”<br/>Jim laughs, moves his right leg a little to make his words more clear.<br/>“Don’t tell me you are so gay you don’t even know what a garter is.”<br/>Sherlock opens his mouth only to close it immediately after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You may now kiss the bride

The dress between his hands is annoying, full of laces that make difficult to understand where his fingers have to slip to remove what, in Sherlock's eyes, now seems the most complicated of puzzles. It's not that difficult itself – even if he has very little familiarity with women's clothes, it's just a dress, something that most people can understand without too much trouble – but the painful erection in his pants makes hard ( _literally_ ) to focus even on a little ordinary task like that.

Sherlock growls of frustration and gives a strong tug. The dress doesn't move an inch. He feels incredibly stupid. He feels even more ridiculous knowing that Jim is watching him, all dark eyes and lips covered in blood open in a sharp grin that can make him look dangerous even if he's wearing a wedding dress.

That's what he likes so much of him, though.

Jim can make every situation interesting with his mere presence. There is something in the way he looks at him that makes him shiver, something in the way he raises the corners of the mouth in a smile that generates a spark right in the middle of his chest, stimulating that exact spot that no one but him can reach. There is something in his touches that makes him an addict desperate for another hit.

If his drug use has always been controlled, when it comes to Jim things change. It's impossible staying away from him when their mouths are separated only by inches and Jim suddenly moves back, when he suppresses a laugh in a wet kiss or when together they dance on the fine line between pain and pleasure, getting closer now to death now to ecstasy according to the pressure exerted by the fingers around the throat.

"And to think that, to make it easier, I'm not wearing anything under the skirt!"

Jim still looks relatively decent. His skin is white and untouched like the dress he's wearing – is somehow ironic, considering that purity and innocence are the last things that come to his mind when he looks at Moriarty – and the only spot of colour is the red on his lips that gives to his kisses a typical metallic flavour that Sherlock never thought he would have liked. When he bends over to have another taste of it (and to shut him up), he realizes he hasn't bitten him that day. The blood is like painted on his mouth. It doesn't get away. Not even when Sherlock runs his tongue over it.

He closes his eyes. He does it hard enough to see one hundred white stars shining in the darkness behind the eyelids. _He can't think about it_ , not now that Jim is warm and full of energy and _alive_ under his hands, not now that he responds to every touch with a movement of the pelvis and kisses him with a desperation so deep and intense that it just _can't_ be a figment of his imagination.

It can't be all in his head. It doesn't matter if Jim's need is so familiar to make him sick.

Sherlock slips his hands under the skirt to place them on the naked hips that he immediately holds tight. He wants to leave marks. To prove what, he doesn't know himself.

"Oh, you finally understood why I'm wearing a dress!"

Jim laughs – he's not making fun of him, not really, he looks more amused by the whole situation than animated by evil intentions, however strange and unusual it might be – and, when Sherlock opens his eyes again, he's faced with a smile that is a little sweeter. At least in appearance.

"Honey, don't even try to complain. We are in your mind and–"

The rest of the sentence becomes an incomprehensible moan when Sherlock bites his lips, teeth closing around the soft and sensitive skin. Drops of blood come out and stain their mouths and sighs.

It must be real, they can't be in his mind palace. They can't.

"I was saying..." Jim is panting when he moves back – if only he could, Sherlock would have kissed him forever, just to not give him the time to talk, to not listen to the truth he's desperately trying to avoid – and his lips are even redder than before. They are indecent. "I wear this thing, in which I look hot even if it's quite ancient, only because you have taken the phrase 'married to my work' literally and you see me as your bride. So, you can't complain."

"Oh, shut up."

He knows he sounds like a petulant child, he regrets his own words the exact moment they come out of his mouth, but he doesn't know what else to say. Jim is right. He has always considered his job more important than any romantic entanglement and, if there is someone who perfectly embodies the thrill of the hunt and the mental stimulation Sherlock needs more than air, that's Moriarty. The fact that they have both begun with Carl Powers adds only more weight to his words. He would call it fate or destiny, if only he believed in stuff like that.

Jim licks his lips. The tongue moves slowly, lingers on every centimetre of skin. Sherlock finds himself following the movement with his eyes.

"Make me."

Sherlock smiles. It's exactly what he wanted to hear. It brings to his mind domestic memories, words whispered in the crook of Jim's neck and light kisses, stifled giggles and bare feet moving silently to hide from the sound John made opening the door of 221b. For the first time since they have started, Sherlock feels a laugh in his throat. Vibrant and fresh, it makes its way into his mouth and escapes from his lips to break free and hover in the warm air that separates their faces.

For a moment, everything it's fine. He is happier than he has ever been and there still are a few months before the day they will meet on the roof of St. Barts. Unfortunately, that moment doesn't last long. A blink of the eye and disappears, dissolving into thin air as fast as it appeared, leaving Sherlock confused and disoriented. He wonders if he has only imagined it, but he decides to not try and give himself an answer – it's better that way, it's better focus on Jim's body.

He leans down to kiss him on the neck, but at last he realizes that it's covered by the dress and sighs, irritation that takes control of his body again, spreading in warm waves that make his movements more fast and violent. He pulls down the collar with his fingers. The elastic moves down and applies a sudden pressure to the carotid, getting an aroused moan from Jim and a satisfied grin from Sherlock. Erotic asphyxiation has always been one of their favourite kinks.

The tongue moves as it can on the few inches of bare skin, while the fingers try to move the cloth, tugging at it to get more free space as possible. It's more annoying and frustrating than hot. He leaves a couple of bites – teeth clench around the flesh with violence, combined with the pressure exerted by the dress  they make Jim moan again – and then stands up.

He gives himself few seconds to observe the man beneath him.

Icy blue eyes move from his black hair, now that the veil has been removed it looks like a dark halo, to eyes just as black. The sparkle that shine at the bottom of those wells of pure darkness is so fascinating that, for a moment, Sherlock wants to open his skull in two just to be able to reach it and look at it more closely.

Jim holds his gaze.

"You know, this is our wedding night..." He whispers, voice low and melodious, lifting the skirt over his hips to show off his erect cock, already wet with pre-come. "I think it lacks a bit of romance and tradition."

The sarcastic reply that Sherlock has in mind doesn't have the time to leave his lips.

"Do you want to take off my garter using your teeth?"

"Sorry, what?"

Jim laughs, moves his right leg a little to make his words more clear.

"Don't tell me you are so gay you don't even know what a garter is."

Sherlock opens his mouth only to close it immediately after.

Even if Jim's proposal is indecent and provocative, to his ears it sounds somehow _innocent._ It's not virginal and modest – not even the white dress can be called pure now that Jim lifted it up to show his erection – of course, but it still isn't malicious, it lacks the cruelty that poured from his previous words like thick black liquid, making Sherlock painfully aware of the truth. He can't find a real reason to say no. Moreover, as the erection forced into his tight pants likes to remind him, there is no time to talk.

He forces himself to swallow the sharp words that dance of the tip of his tongue and kneels down between Jim's legs. The skirt now falls over his head, covering him.

It's a little weird – and stupid, since when they follow tradition? – but they have done way weirder things in bed, so he closes his teeth around the strip of cloth wrapped around Jim's thigh. He takes it off without any problem.

When he stands up again, he finds another smile on Jim's lips.

"Congratulations, _bravo_." He only says, reaching a hand to hold the garter and throw it behind him. Of course there is no one there to catch it. "Now you can fuck me as you like."

"As if I needed you to tell me that."

"Right, right." The soft laugh that escapes his mouth turns into a deliberately theatrical moan when Sherlock's fingertips start teasing him, moving around the ring of muscles. "You are not a little virgin anymore..."

Sherlock decides Jim should use his mouth for something else.

He kisses him again – he has lost count of all the times he did it, of all the times he bent to taste his lips, on the tip of the tongue the metallic taste of blood combined with the sweetness of temptation and the bitterness that accompanies a horrible person like him – while the finger slides easily in him. Too easily, considering that they didn't have sex in a while and Jim didn't prepared himself. _It doesn't make sense._

"Don't think too much about it. You know, _here in your head_ you can do–"

Once again, his teeth clench around the lower lip and Jim's words become a moan higher than the others. Sherlock moves away from his mouth only to bite him on the neck, through the fabric. He's biting so hard he's sure Jim is feeling pain – considering how masochist he is, it probably turns him on though, thing that disappoints Sherlock more than he thought – despite the protection given by the dress collar.

He adds another and starts moving quickly, spreading index and middle fingers and stimulating those spots he knows are more sensitive than the others, to fill the room with gasps and moans that carry his name. He hopes the sounds could cover the truth from which he's desperately trying to escape.

It's not enough.

He pulls out the fingers and penetrates him with a single movement, which reminds him only of how unreal the situation is. He shouldn't have been able to push himself in Jim with so little effort. He growls, raises a hand to grip his hair. He fucks him quickly, silencing every question that swirls in his mind with a thrust.

His fingers tighten around the hair, slide towards the back of his head. They disappear inside it. They bathe in something sticky.

It's worse than a kick in the stomach.

Sherlock freezes and gasps, breaths that become more and more short and broken as the scene around him begins to tremble. The silhouettes of the furniture lose their outlines, becoming a shapeless blurred colour spot. He's losing the little control he had. Reality is slipping through his fingers dirty with blood and tiny bits of brain. Sherlock moves his hand to dip it in Jim's hair, he clings to the black locks as if they were his only grip to reality. Some strands remain on his bloody fingers.

Jim doesn't say anything.

He keeps staring at him and, if his face was the one of the biggest bastard in the whole world, now his expression is softened. Groomed eyebrows lower slightly, lips curl into a smaller and sweeter smile, more genuine and natural of the others, similar to the one he has on his mouth right before shooting himself or on the few occasions Sherlock saw him truly _happy._ When they woke up together for the first time. That night Jim caused a blackout in all London just so they could watch the stars together. Every time he stood on his tiptoes to kiss him, brushing his lips against Sherlock's with a delicacy that almost felt wrong.

Jim raises his left hand to caress his cheek. His fingertips – they are strangely hot and Sherlock can't understand why – trace the cheekbone and move down to touch his lower lip.

"See?" He says, voice that leaves his mouth in a sigh so light that almost goes unheard.

Sherlock doesn't reply. He swallows hard. The lump in his throat stays there, like the small tears in the corner of his eyes that make everything even more confused and shaky. Jim moves. He moans softly, rolling his hips and tighten around Sherlock, who starts pushing inside him again, even if more slowly than before.

"Sherlock, don't be afraid to say it." He whispers, broken words interrupted by groans.

Sherlock closes his eyes. He bends over to sink his face in the crook of Jim's neck, to hide as much from him as from himself – _not that there is much difference, after all._ He presses his nose against the strip of naked skin and the smell of Jim fills his nostrils. Blood, mild soap and mint. It's familiar and somehow comforting. It's almost like a hug.

"Are you really dead?"

Tears wet his eyelashes. When he opens his eyes, the first one slides down his cheek and shatters on the collar of the dress. Sherlock thrusts deeper and faster, as if the pushes could somehow cover his reaction, that single tear he shed. It doesn't work, of course. Even if Jim didn't say anything about it, it's impossible he didn't notice it.

"Not that, the other thing."

Jim's hand rests on his head and plays with dark curls, rolling them around the fingers and pulling them when Sherlock increases the pace. If every gesture receives in response a similar and mirrored movement, the same doesn't happen to Jim's words, ignored by Sherlock's low and hoarse gasps.

For a while, their bodies speak so they don't have too.

Even Jim uses his mouth only to call Sherlock, moan or do both at the same time, something of which Sherlock is infinitely grateful. With the smell of Jim in his nose, his obscene moans in his ears and his warmth around his cock is also easy to forget the hole in the back of his skull. The more he doesn't think about the dry blood on his fingers, the more the orgasm approaches.

"I love you."

Sherlock confesses it when he comes inside him. He stifles it in the wedding dress, trying to hide his face as much as he can. He says with a broken voice, with tears now streaming down his face and his heart held in a grip so tight that Sherlock feels like his chest is being ripped in two. He whispers it softly and with fear in every syllable, like a secret hold for too long.

Admitting it doesn't make him feel better. To hell people who say that you should open up to your loved ones.

As his breath comes back, Jim's body beneath him becomes increasingly tenuous. And cold, like a street in the middle of a humid night or as a ghost, for stupid people who prefers believing in the supernatural rather than in the demons that dwell in the human soul. Jim's characteristic smell is replaced by the stink of a pool piss a few inches from him.

The last thing he hears before going back into a dark alley forgotten by the world, is Jim's voice, muffled and distant. It's sad. It makes him want to throw up, but that could also be an effect of all the stuff he injected in his vein.

_"Then why didn't you tell me before I killed myself? Why didn't you stop me?"_


End file.
